


The Walls

by Butwhymustiputaname



Category: Arthurian Legend, BBC Merlin, Merlin (TV), Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bastille - Freeform, Camelot in ruins, Fluff, M/M, Meeting, Merthur - Freeform, One Shot, Pompeii, Reunion, Reunions, Songfic, angsty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butwhymustiputaname/pseuds/Butwhymustiputaname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off of a post's tags, post linked in fic:<br/>Merlin has not set foot in Camelot since the day Arthur died. He has been waiting, biding his time until he should see his king once more. Unable to resist any longer, his magic begins to pull him back to Camelot, the place where it all began, but where it has long since ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walls

**Author's Note:**

> This was based off of a [post](http://themerlinfandom.tumblr.com/post/92203537050/uhmeliamay-how-i-spent-my-time-at-pompeii) I saw on tumblr, and is my first completed Merlin fic.  
> Also, I know that in this work there are many sentence fragments. I'm sorry if that annoys you or bothers you when reading, but I tend to prioritize the flow of writing and how it sounds over being perfect in grammar.

# The Walls

He had not set eyes upon the city in years. Not in centuries. Not in _two millennia_.

He had never once come back. With Arthur gone, there was nothing left for him in Camelot. It was _their_ city. The _kingdom_ they built together.

He had moved on, or so he said. He left Camelot, left the land that was once Albion, and never so much as looked over his shoulder at the kingdom he let rot. He traveled: over hills and seas, over wide plains and mountains. Eventually, he felt drawn back, his magic pulling him back towards its roots, it's _home_. And so he returned to Albion, though by now it was not called this anymore, but still he did not return to Camelot. By now it had already faded into legend; it was a rumour whispered in hushed voices. _The lost great city_. The king had fallen in battle, and many years later, the queen in her sleep. She had, by then, married anew, and bore an heir to the throne. But with her death, the kingdom began to fade away, the new king not much of a leader, or a ruler. It faded until some doubted it had ever existed.

He did visit the land that once sustained a small, earthy village called Ealdor. Now, though, it was but land. The huts made of earth and wood and straw now long gone. Disintegrated, or run down over time. Wild flowers still grew, and a few stones marked old paths, but the village was no more. And he did not expect it to be. He just knew that he must reunite himself with this soil, where he was raised, where he was born. The place he once called home. 

He rested his bones, now a few centuries old, but still as young as he was when he left. He leaned against a tree near the woods, where his old home used to be, and dug his toes into the dirt. He plucked dandelions from the grass and laid them on his chest ere he slept, a dull ache in his heart. He was both homesick and at peace and did not ponder the feeling.

But all too soon Merlin left here as well. He eventually found himself living in London, which grew more and more to be the heart of the land. He had fared well, made many friends in his life-- though none as true as his friends before-- and was trusted and loved by many. Though, he was always on his own. And if any pretty girl should ask him why, well, he should just laugh a bit grimly and say that he was waiting for the right person to come along.

And he waited.

He went to school, many and many times over, enrolling again every thirty to fifty years under a new name. He wondered though, why they always seemed to teach the same old thing. He must have had a few hundred different degrees by now. But he did nothing much with this, made no great name for himself in a world where he could so easily blind the populous. He still showed up, though, for a lack of something better to do, but by now he knew everything by heart-- by dull repetition, really-- and mostly drifted off, doodled, and daydreamed in class, though he still made some of the highest marks. Never a perfect score though, because honestly, "What kind of a joke is this, Daniel? How could you write the wrong name on your test?! What does this even say? Melvin?!" 

And despite the friends he made there, he always made sure to "lose contact" and drift away before uni. He had a small group of them now actually. He wasn't the most important in the circle by far, but there nonetheless. 

Now though, he had taken a gap year. Spent most of his time wandering, again. He traveled on foot, wherever he went. He would not ride without Arthur, and driving to a place that was this ancient in his heart felt wrong. God, _he_ was so _ancient_. And yet, here he was walking the path that he had once, so many years ago, taken to Camelot for the first time. Merlin had spent many a days' journey on the road, eyes bright and wide, heart so light without the weight that it would later carry. And eventually he had arrived, to the place where his destiny awaited. Naïve and grinning. It was so different now.

He could have found it with his eyes shut. Without looking ahead in his mind's eye. The path beckoned him, so familiar and so strange at the same time. His magic had him on a leash, drilled through his heart and pulling him straight down the winding path, like a rope held taut. Nostalgia and dread both worked their way through his stomach. That or it might be the hunger, he often forgot to eat now, sustained only by his magic's desperate will to keep him alive.

This time was a bit different, though. He still dressed similarly, though of newer material. Soft, blue t-shirts replaced tunics, and jeans, his breeches. His coat had seen better days, and so he bought a new one. Neckerchiefs had gone out of fashion, and now a red, looped scarf wound it's way about his neck. He might have said it was for familiarity and comfort, but truly, he dressed like he used to for he feared that if, one day, Arthur were to return, he might not recognize him.

Merlin could not take the chance.

And it was no longer light and sunny. There were grey clouds in the distance, promising no rain but keeping the sun at a distance, and everything looked sad and downcast. Slowly, they rolled over the green hills, turning the land dark and distant. Now, too, if you looked close, thin white cords hung from his ears, and trailed into his pocket to his iPod. Well, iPhone really, but he mainly used it for music and occasionally talking to his friends. He called it an iPod; he never made calls. He often needed a backdrop to his thoughts, and music provided this for him. On his iPod one could find anything from punk, to classical music, to whatever catchy pop was a hit on the radio. 

His feet trod down the path again, crunching gravel and dust. In the distance, he could almost see the towers and turrets of the castle, the town below, bustling with its markets. He could smell home-cooked dinners and hear the gossiping of the people.

But when he reached Camelot none of these things were real. The towns, and the people, were long dead. Buried in the ground where he stood, or moved on and resting elsewhere. He knew too, that when Camelot finally fell, to the invaders, the people were slaughtered where they stood. 

He had been too far away at the time to return and save them, and Camelot burned to the ground.

He broke into a run, and did not even register it when he ran past where the stocks used to be, a reminder of his first meeting with Arthur. He ran. He ran past the blacksmith's shop, where Gwen had lived before she became Arthur's queen. Past the pigsties, and chicken coops, and the butcher's. He sprinted past where all the houses used to be, lined up along the town. He ran and ran and did not stop until he reached the castle.

Or what remained of it.

The walls, long since broken down, lay crumbling on the ground. Nothing was left but ruins as ancient as he. No more did the castle tower over the people, a symbol of power, strength and might. No longer did the guards patrol the halls, nor did the servants bustle about. It was so empty: no longer a building, just open land, bereft of life. The ground was still paved with rock and cement, but the tiles were cracking open and some were loose were they sat. Some pillars stood tall, but this only called attention to those lying down, broken in half. Everything had tumbled to the ground. It had eroded and been washed away, and worn down again over time. Merlin dared not breathe, lest he disturb the dust.

Gaining the will to move on, he walked through the rubble. He kicked stones out of his path. Small patches of brickwork and stone remained, here and there, the rest reduced to ash. He walked through Gaius's chambers (not even chambers now, it was all torn down and lying in a heap on the floor) Into Arthur's old bed chambers, where he used to taunt and tease him and he did the same. He walked and remembered. 

Until, that is, he reached his true destination. Standing there now, it felt _so wrong_. But, closing his eyes, he could still remember the room in all of its majesty. The old throne room, full of light and shining with gold. Music playing. Tapestries on each wall. Full of applause. His heart swelling, smirking at Gwen like the old days as Arthur was praised by the court, at his father's side.

Arthur's coronation.

His marriage.

Now... Now it was so different. So _dead_. Ash and bone and dirt and brick. He wiped a finger on the ground. It came back smeared with white, dusty powder: the remnants of stone, crushed. He wanted to cry. This was his home, his _destiny_. And it had all gone to waste, to rot, to ash and bone and dirt and brick and, and a-and...

He fell. His legs had wobbled and his knees were weak and he just sank to the ground. Because now, here he was, at the foot of the throne. And here he was, kneeling at it again. But now it was no throne, just a pile of pebbles and dust, like it was waiting to be swept away into the trashbin. He had been here so many times before, but he had never imagined-

No... He had never imagined it quite like this.

 

This was Arthur's palace; this was his king's _domain._ It should never be anything less than perfect. It was once so full of life. It was once his destiny. He had failed Arthur, and he had failed Camelot, and he could've gone on and on about what might have been but it would not change a thing.  
This was the course that had been set. And maybe he was meant to fail, maybe it was a part of his great-

_'Eh-eh-o eh-o'_  
 _'Eh-eh-o eh-o'_  
 _'I was left to my own devices'_  
 _'Many days fell away with nothing to show-'_

Merlin ripped the cords from his ears. He was crying now. That song he had heard once or twice before on the radio. Only a line or two, here and there. It was popular and he liked it, so he bought it, of course. 

The first night he had listened to it he ended up crying himself to bed. 

It only made him think of Arthur. 

He was desperate in that moment. He had to share this with someone or he was sure his heart would break from grief. He pulled his iPod (phone) out of his trouser pocket. He took a photo or two of his surroundings, the testimony to how great things should fall.

He snapchatted them to his current friends, Andrew, and Sophia, and Josie, and Kate, and Mark. He captioned them with the words that brought him so much pain, the lyrics that kept getting stuck in his head.

_'And the walls kept tumbling down'_  
 _'In the city that we love'_  
 _'Great clouds roll over the hills'_  
 _'Bringing darkness from above'_

He had at some point unplugged his headphones and looped the song on repeat, though he did not remember doing so. His iPod (phone, Merlin, it's a _phone_ ) now sat in a little pile of dust on the ground next to him. His jeans must be covered in white powder now, all over his legs, like the time he had spilt baby powder all over himself because he _did not remember_ that it was already unscrewed when he had magicked it over to himself. It had taken weeks before his hair was completely free of the stuff. He wondered how long it would take to get this stuff off of him. How long it would be until he was truly rid of Camelot and his destiny and the ache in his heart. 

His chest was heaving. His breath shuddered with each intake, and every exhale prompted a sob. His "iPod" buzzed, and he checked it through his tears. 

"Clever" was all it said. From Andrew.

He didn't get it. None of them did, or would. He was the only one put through this very specific hell. But he knew that already. He just needed someone, _someone,_ to be aware of where he was, of what he was going through. No matter how vague.

_'How am I going to be an optimist about this?'_

He clutched the metal thing desperately, pulling it into his stomach and bending over it to muffle the sound. But this only made him feel the music as it pounded nearer to his heart. He wept and wept. He was on his knees, scrabbling in the dust to find purchase in something still there. Trying to prove that his world was still intact. Whole.

He used to sit there with his king. And now not even the chair remained for him.

Though, he really stood beside him. Watching over him. A friend, protector, and, something _more_ , all rolled into one helpless clutz with ears far too big for his face and poor social skills. 

He squeezed his eyes shut in a bitter and anguishing attempt of forgetting. Hot tears were forced down his cheeks as he blinked hard. His lips tasted salty, and the ground was spotted with water droplets, as if the rain had come. He saw Arthur on his throne, and Gwen on hers. He felt the knights surrounding him with friendly arms. Gaius gave him looks from across the room. He even wished for Uther and Morgana, sitting there in all of their finery. He knelt, surrounded by those who loved him, those he swore to _protect._

And surrounded by those he had failed.

_'How am I going to be an optimist about this?'  
'But if you close your eyes...'_

And suddenly it wasn't just Arthur's death he was mourning. It was Gwen's, and Gauis's, and Morgana's, and Will's, and his mother's, and it was the lives and the deaths of all of the thousands of people he had failed to save. The dust was not just a remnant of his king, but of every courtier and every servant that had stepped into this other world. The dust his fingers had traced rushed paths in was a culmination of people. The bones in this city were frightening.

_'Does it almost feel like you've been here before?'_

But slowly each person and each warm memory faded, until he finally just sat alone, sobbing.  
But then he felt a hand on his shoulder: a heavy, warm weight of reassurance on his back.

He was wretched, so wretched at the moment, that he wanted no one to see him. He could not be looked upon like this, not when his eyes were so swollen from sobbing, and his face red and tear streaked. His voice was wrecked, and he could only choke for sound. 

The hand tried to help him up.

"No.. No!" He hiccoughed. 

"Leave me." He clutched at the earth and the stone before him.

The hand pulled him around, and Merlin did not have the strength to resist. His head stayed bowed for a few moments, before he looked upwards, and Merlin found himself kneeling in front of his king once again.

The sun had returned from behind the clouds, and now Arthur's hair shone like gold silk, and his head was enveloped in a halo of light. He still wore the armour he died in, clinking chainmail, and a red pendragon cape. Merlin looked at the armour, to where Mordred had thrust his blade clean through the metal, and into Arthur's flesh. The metal links were broken and bent where he had been stabbed, and the metal dried and stained a dark, rusty colour from the blood that had pooled there, but no evidence other than thus showed that the wound was still there. 

"What's the matter, _Mer_ lin? You look as if you've seen a _ghost_."

"A-Arthur?" He stood.

His phone vibrated in his hand. His grip had gone so lax that the slight buzz shifted it out of his hand, and it fell to the ground and cracked. It played on, though. The screen was shattered, but one could just make out the text he had received.

Andrew:  
 _You alright mate?_

Merlin choked out a stuttering sob. "P-p.. _Prat_.." He threw himself into Arthur's arms.

He cried quietly into the crook of his neck, avoiding the armour as best he could and soaking Arthur's skin. And _yes... Yes, he was real_. He was warm, and strong, and holding him in his arms as if he never intended to let him go.With every rise and fall of Arthur's chest it was as if more life was being breathed into Merlin himself. 

He tore himself away and held him at arms length.

Merlin's hands were claws upon Arthur's shoulders. The mail left impressions and dents in his skin but he paid it no mind. Arthur's arms left Merlin's sides and he cupped his face in his hands. His thumbs stroked away the tears that still trailed down Merlin's face, though now they were silent. No longer tears of misery but of relief, and joy, and happiness, and _yes, there was love there too._ Still there lingered the slightest disbelief, but as Arthur held him there, his hands warming Merlin's cold face, the wind began to pick up.

It whipped about wildly and Merlin was sobbing again. 

The dust swirled about them and huge chunks of stone rolled over and picked themselves up. They stacked themselves on top of each other as the walls began to resurrect themselves. Small dull pebbles and sharp pieces of cracked stone flew past them, one soaring a bit too close and cutting Merlin's cheek. He seemed not to even notice the small trickle of blood against the tears. No stones flew too close to Arthur. 

The pieces wedged themselves back where they once fit and the castle built itself around them. Ashes turned into coals, which turned into roaring fires that spat out tables. Upon them, candles melted backwards until they stood tall in candleholders that had not been there a moment before. The roof closed over them and tapestries rolled down the walls. 

If Arthur noticed any of this, it would only be from his peripheral vision, for during all of this, his eyes never left Merlin's. His calm, steady eyes never once left the shaking, fearful gaze of his manservant's. 

Finally the room was still. Merlin held his breath and Arthur's fingers stopped wiping away tears. There were none. 

Only now, did Merlin allow himself to bury himself in Arthur's embrace once more. He dug his fingers into any chink he could find, any breach in the armour that would allow him to cling tighter. 

"Did you doubt me, Merlin?" 

He clung tighter. 

"I didn't know where to find you, I didn't know if you'd return, or where, or-" 

Arthur shushed him. " _Shh, it's alright. You knew just where to find me."_

He continued. "How could you think I would come to anywhere else? Anywhere other than the kingdom you helped me build? I am the Once and Future King, Merlin, and I will always, _always,_ return to you." 

Merlin looked at him. "Who told you that?" 

Arthur gave an odd shrug. "Some dragon that spoke only in riddles and never said anything useful." 

Merlin laughed at him. "Kilgharrah? Is he still around? The batty old lizard, I thought he died long ago." 

"No, she said her name was... Aithusa? She told me she owed you a great debt, and asked for your forgiveness." 

_"Oh, Aithusa."_

_"Right weird sounding name, if you ask me."_

_"Oh, shut up you clotpole."_

Arthur chuckled. "Anything else you wish me to do, _your royal highness?_ " He mocked him. 

_"Just... Just hold me."_

  

_'If you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?'_


End file.
